Game Over
by Crescent Moon Dancer
Summary: In which Gimli loses the drinking game, Aragorn is helpful and mischievous, and a shamelessly eavesdropping Éomer makes some surprising discoveries about the companions. (No slash)
"What did I say? He can't hold his liquor!" Gimli gave a deep laugh of triumph, clapping his mug back on the table with a grin - and then he paused, swaying slightly. A brief moment passed, then the Dwarf's eyes crossed, and he fell backwards off his stool, out cold.

Amid roars of laughter from the onlookers, Legolas raised his eyebrows, somewhat nonplussed, and remarked to no one in particular, "Game over."

A grinning Éomer walked over, clapping the victorious elf on the shoulder. "Well done!" he exclaimed with a chuckle. "There's not many present - or indeed, anywhere in Middle Earth - who can out-drink a dwarf, unless," he glanced across to where Merry and Pippin were singing a raucous song, tankards clasped in their hands, "they are to be found in the Shire." Legolas grinned back, though his eyes seemed to be a little unfocused.

"Dorwinian wine, my friend, is far more potent than men's ale."

"True," the Rohirrim agreed, "but I hardly think you have supped so much of it at once. This drinking game has polished off an entire barrel of ale, and you have drunk fully half of it!" He peered a little closer at the elf, who was beginning to look distinctly unsteady. "Are you quite well?" he inquired.

"Grain," Legolas mumbled. "It is...different. Much different." His complexion was now a delicate shade of greyish-green that would really be quite attractive on something besides a face. "I...believe I need some fresh air. If you will excuse me." The elf prince made his way to the door, carefully holding his head very still and straight. Éomer noticed Aragorn watching his exit, and a moment later the man slipped away and followed his friend outside.

The blond Rider hesitated, reluctant to follow them and intrude on the poor elf's recovery, but he was plagued with curiosity about the friendship that seemed to exist between the Ranger and the elf prince. It was strange, Éomer thought, for them to be so close. The Rohirrim had always regarded elves as something from legend; distant, aloof, unreachable by mortal men. And yet...

Eventually, curiosity won out, and Éomer pushed his way through the merry throng, escaping to the cool quietness of outdoors. He looked around, seeing no sign of the two he sought, but then a strange sound reached his ears. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the stable. Accordingly, he descended the steps of the hall and walked towards the long building where the horses were housed. Furtively peeking around the corner, the sight that greeted him almost sent him reeling with shock.

Legolas was doubled over by the wall, being violently sick, and Aragorn was gently holding the long, golden hair out of the way, rubbing the elf's back soothingly and murmuring something Éomer could not hear. Even in the dim light of the evening, the Rohirrim could see that the other man's face was twitching, as if he sternly fought the desire to laugh at his friend's plight.

Legolas heaved again, and then straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. "Better now?" Aragorn inquired, his voice gentle and admirably devoid of amusement. His friend nodded.

"Yes, thank you," he replied, and smiled ruefully. "Take note, _mellon nin_ \- when one is raised on fermented grape, it is not a good idea to inundate one's system with a surplus of fermented grain all at once. The results are not pleasant." He shuddered, and Éomer saw that his complexion was still far from healthy. Aragorn chuckled.

"So I had noticed," he answered, just managing to inject the appropriate amount of sympathy into the words. "Are you sure you're alright?" The elf nodded again.

"I am," he confirmed. "Naught aching now but my pride, and nothing damaged but my dignity." The ranger smiled with an affection that the eavesdropping man found surprising.

"You and I," Aragorn said, "have traveled halfway across the world together. We have fought together, lived together, laughed, cried, and almost died together. We have continually disgraced ourselves in front of the other along this whole journey. If there is any dignity left in us where the other is concerned, it is not much." He clapped his friend on the shoulder, grinning. "Especially after the bathing incident in the Anduin." Legolas flushed deep red, and it was only his training that kept him from burying his face in his hands.

"If you insist on staying underwater far longer than is normal for a paltry mortal, you get what is coming to you," he retorted. "I thought you had lost consciousness and were in danger of drowning."

"I did lose consciousness," the man replied, straight-faced. "After a great heavy elf dove into the river and landed squarely on my head." His friend glared at him, and he laughed. "Truly, Legolas, I am grateful for your concern - even if the result was a two-day concussion. And," he raised his hand, forestalling the others' protest, "you've no more cause for embarrassment than I." Legolas smiled - rather fiendishly, Éomer thought.

"I suppose," he agreed, "seeing as I was not the one dragged from the river completely unclothed." Aragorn grimaced, and Éomer, his eyes wide, hastily retreated.

Feeling rather traumatized by that last mental image, he wandered back to the hall, deep in thought. Ever since their arrival in Rohan, he had been much puzzled by the various companions. Gimli was the easiest to understand and read, he thought, and the hobbits - though the courage, fortitude, and loyalty hiding in such small, seemingly simple packages was astonishing. Gandalf was a wizard, an Istar, and one of the Wise; the mysteriousness surrounding him was completely natural, and Éomer took it for granted and left it alone.

But the man, Strider - Aragorn, his friends called him - he was a puzzle to the Rider of the Riddermark. He had seen the man in battle, had witnessed firsthand his fearlessness, his daring, and his unquestionable ability to lead. He had seen the wisdom in the deep, grey eyes, and perceived the mystery that cloaked the ranger almost as much as it did the wizard.

But Éomer had seen a different side of him tonight, the side of him that would help an ailing friend and then turn around and ruthlessly tease him while his companion glared.

Perhaps most puzzling and surprising of all was the companion in question. The Rohirrim had always supposed elves to be greatly complicated creatures, beyond the vulnerability of things like being drunk - or even semi-drunk - and above such things as frivolous gaiety or panicked action. And yet, Aragorn's voice had indicated that panicked was exactly what Legolas was when he dove into a river to save an apparently drowning friend.

The prince of Mirkwood was an enigma, Éomer decided, beyond the understanding of any regular person. Perhaps his companions knew him, or could know him, but his own passing acquaintance with the elf wasn't enough for him to fully see just who - and what - Legolas was. Furthermore, he concluded to himself, he didn't really care to try and find out. After what he had witnessed tonight, he would probably never see the immortal prince the same way again.

As if on cue, the two friends reappeared in the crowded room, and Éomer instinctively checked to see if the elf looked any better. Though still pale, Legolas seemed much steadier, and he appeared to be conversing quite normally with Aragorn.

Across the hall, the two hobbits caught sight of their companions. "Legolas!" Pippin cried, his high, light voice carrying clearly above the hubbub of the rest of the merrymakers. "Come join our drinking game!"

"You did promise, you know," Merry added, his slightly deeper voice no less audible.

At the sight of the elf's horrified face - once again a shade of green completely unbecoming to his race - Éomer dissolved into paroxysms of laughter.


End file.
